


You've Always Been Familiar

by xxjinchuurikixx



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst has no power here, Established Relationship, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Italics, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possibly Immortal Jaskier, soft stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxjinchuurikixx/pseuds/xxjinchuurikixx
Summary: Geralt thinks back to the first time he had sex with Jaskier. While having sex with Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, geraskier - Relationship
Comments: 24
Kudos: 636





	You've Always Been Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lot of fluffy smut I wrote at work because the other Witcher fics I am writing are a little too long and I want the smut!!   
> Hope the tense changes are all italicized correctly, with flashbacks being fancy. Good luck kids.   
> xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

That first time had been so different from now. The same, in terms of passion and hunger, but so lacking in familiarity and love. It had taken some time, but yes, that’s exactly what it was. That was exactly what Geralt felt when he looked at Jaskier, what pounded in his veins and calmed his nerves just the same.

Has it been so long?

Geralt brushes Jaskier’s hair back from his face, sweat staining the chestnut strands a richer, darker color. Jaskier is flushed from exertion, warmth painting his skin rosy, his lips bitten and red. Geralt ducks his head and licks the sweat at the sharp hinge of Jaskier’s jaw.

Jaskier had sweat then, though it had taken a bit more effort. Geralt recalls that first time, near two decades ago, a lifetime and only a blink. Jaskier’s jawline was just a tad softer, his youthful features a paler, dewy version of the man under him now.

He’s barely aged, and Geralt has his suspicions, but nothing clear, nothing concrete enough to confirm. His lover has the stamina, the passion of a man half his age, and his bright eyes and sharp wit have not dulled in age. Jaskier barely remembers his family, and there have been obvious signs that exclude a good long list of things that the bard could be, other than strictly human. Geralt has thoughts, but none he dares voice to anyone but Yennefer. When she has the answer, and he’s ready for it, she will give it. Until then…

Geralt thinks of Jaskier, blossoming and bright at barely twenty, a handful of months into their adventures. When he had approached Geralt in that dusty tavern, he had smelled just the same, a scent now engrained into Geralt’s senses so deeply he could taste Jaskier if he breathes through his mouth. He tucks his nose into Jaskier’s throat and inhales, the musk of sweat only making the sweetgrass sweeter, warm summer chamomile and bright orange blossom oil so familiar now.

It had been familiar then, but only in the way a companion’s footsteps become recognizable, an offset to the wilderness that is not registered as danger. Jaskier’s throat had bruised, the scent the same when Geralt pressed his lips there for the first time.

_ The forest was quiet, the thick copse of trees they had camped in for the night providing dense protection, the fire warmth and light. Jaskier’s eyes were like flames themselves, making Geralt’s skin feel hot, too tight and itching for touch. _

He still has that effect, Geralt thinks, lacing his fingers with one of Jaskier’s hands, sliding it up the bed over his head. Jaskier sighs, his whole body bowing up for Geralt, open and carelessly, senselessly given. Jaskier was never one to cling to reason if his cock thought better of it.

_ That night followed something of the same path, Jaskier’s lute abandoned so his thoughts could smother Geralt from across the fire. The other scent in the air was Jaskier’s lust. It was like smoke sometimes, how cloying and warm it could be, stinging Geralt’s nostrils. It had been like that in the tavern, when Jaskier’s eyes landed on him. _

_ Many physical reactions had a scent—lust, fear, excitement, anger. Jaskier’s lust was the sweetest scent in the dusty, dismal tavern, catching Geralt by the nose and insisting he give the bard just three words. Those blue eyes on his face held only intrigue. The way they lit up when he realized who Geralt was flooded him with an entirely different scent, the lust chased away by the bright burn of Jaskier’s delight. It was like a summer meadow brought alive by a high breeze, the scent of the very blue sky itself. _

Geralt loves that scent by now, loves how Jaskier’s happiness, how his excitement feels like a cloudless day, and when directed at Geralt it is almost too much.

The lust returned, on occasion, and even now Geralt smells it in the air, smoke-thick and sweeter than cider or wine. Jaskier smells so incredible when he’s being fucked properly, which is the only way Geralt will fuck him. Now they have the time. There’s no sense rushing when he can have this, Jaskier’s thighs holding his hips, a hand in his hair, his lover well fed and well rested, warm and lush beneath him.

That first time Jaskier had been less fed, less rested, but still so eager. The way his scent spiked when Geralt pulled him onto his bedroll, to keep his knees off the hard earth and bracken. Jaskier loves being cared for, and it was hardly a chore to do so anymore.

_ Geralt glanced at him across the fire, tipping his head back. “What?” _

_ “When was the last time you bed someone? We’ve been on the move for a good while now,” Jaskier said, his blue eyes bright, the scent of him richer than the woodsmoke of the fire. _

_ “Hmm.” _

_ “Just saying, it’s important to keep oneself satisfied in all ways. Adventure is good food for the soul, but my body…” Jaskier gave a physical shudder. “I am very hungry.” _

_ “Next town is a day away.” _

_ “Can you wait that long?” _

_ “Hm.” _

_ Jaskier came around to sit beside him, graceful and yet so careless as he stretched beside Geralt like a cat. “Do you ever fuck your traveling companions?” _

_ “I don’t have companions.” _

_ “You have me?” _

_ “Does it look like I’m fucking you?” _

Jaskier gives a sweet, sharp cry, and Geralt realizes he’s thrust in a bit deeper, a bit harder. Their slow, easy lovemaking has been touched by his filthy thoughts, and he growls through his teeth.

“Darling,” Jaskier moans, sighs. The hand in Geralt’s hair regroups through the silvery white threads, tugs. “ _ Geralt _ .”

Geralt exhales, feeling suddenly breathless.

Yes, he said his name just the same, too.

_ “We’re friends, yes?” Jaskier asked, and not for the first time he smelled a bit like fear. Jaskier’s fear was different from anyone else’s, because it was never because of Geralt, and that made his stomach twist. Jaskier was never afraid of him, not once. _

_ Geralt couldn’t understand the scent for a moment, before he processed the words. He had tried to get rid of Jaskier before, but he found himself no longer actively trying to push the bard out of his life. He would like to consider Jaskier a friend, but that often got people killed. Of course, to Jaskier, Geralt saying ‘no’ would be as painful as death, probably. _

_ “Why do you ask?” He said instead of confirming or denying anything. _

_ Jaskier’s tongue wet his lips, and Geralt felt thirst curl in his gut. _

_ “Well… friendships can be ruined, you know, when someone… oversteps. But, it also means trust. Comfortability. Familiarity,” Jaskier said. _

Geralt groans, his body shuddering as Jaskier twists his hips just a bit. Geralt’s hand moves from the bed to Jaskier’s side, nearly covering the curve of his waist. The muscles here are aged, the hair at his chest and naval a bit denser. Jaskier was so lithe, like a young willow in a breeze, ready for anything. Now, he’s gorgeous, filled out to perfection, malleable and well-known to Geralt’s hands just like a blade of silver or steel.

_ “Familiarity,” Geralt sighed, arching a brow. _

_ “I’m not bad to look at. My hands are very skilled—as is my mouth,” Jaskier said. _

_ “ _ That _ I am familiar with,” Geralt said without bite, and Jaskier smiled, the scent of his fear, his worry softening. “…It wouldn’t ruin things.” _

_ Jaskier was quiet for a moment, as if in shock, and then he smiled very softly. “I mean… it doesn’t even have to be often. Or exclusive. Unless, of course, that sort of thing sharpens your sword, to say.” _

_ “Jaskier.” _

_ “And I’m sure you can tell no objections would come from my end, quite literally I mean that, but also figuratively. You’re incredibly handsome, and it’s not to say I’ve thought of it too much, but a healthy amount of thought has been had.” _

_ Geralt cupped Jaskier’s face, cradled his jaw with all the gentleness he was capable of. Those bright eyes went alight, the flush on Jaskier’s face sweeter than strawberries, his scent twisting and heating Geralt’s gut like nothing ever had before. “Stop talking.” _

Gasping, Geralt pushes back, high enough he can see Jaskier’s face.

Ageless, beautiful as he ever was and somehow so much more. Geralt figures that’s what happens when someone hooks into your heart. No, that’s the wrong way to say it. Jaskier has never been sharp or callous with Geralt’s heart.

He looks up at Geralt with an expression torn between fondness and fierceness, gentle and ravenous in equal parts. He touches his hand to Geralt’s face, his thumb pressed to a scar like an anchor, an unconscious point along Geralt’s chin that he touches very often.

“Love,” he pants, and Geralt closes his eyes.

“Jas.”

The gentleness with which he holds Geralt’s heart is close to cruelty. Jaskier would never harm him, but he holds the capability to wound Geralt more fatally than any beast he’s ever hunted. It is cruel, how tenderly Jaskier loves him, how deeply.

Jaskier did not claw Geralt’s heart from him. He held out his hand, and waited, waited for Geralt to set it there. Fucking idiot, Geralt did.

Not that first time, when Jaskier was on hands and knees in the forest. Geralt’s hands find purchase on Jaskier’s hips, fading and fresh bruises like magnets, and he fucks his love a bit deeper, harder.

Jaskier’s eyes flutter, but don’t shut.

“Jas,” Geralt whispers again.

_ “I’m not to assume you’re a virgin, but… have you? With a man?” Jaskier asked, just as breathless from their fevered kiss as Geralt but showing it in an unabashed fashion. _

_ “I’m very old, Jaskier,” Geralt said, unfastening Jaskier’s breeches, pulling them down. There was a chill in the air, and Jaskier was slight. Geralt wouldn’t expose more flesh than necessary. He twisted the bard onto his hands and knees, then directed him onto the bedroll, watching one of Jaskier’s hands fly out and clutch at a tree. _

_ “Doesn’t mean you fancy—ah!” Jaskier cut off, the sound he made like liquid honey in Geralt’s ears the way his taste was on Geralt’s tongue. He licked eagerly, but slowly, relishing each gasp and choked off moan, and then the heady, desperate sounds Jaskier could not contain. Geralt hadn’t been with many men, and certainly not recently, but Jaskier was certainly the most frustrating, the most gorgeous, and the most delicious.  _

_ Jaskier fisted the bedroll and clawed at the tree, hanging his head and shoving his hips up. “My bag… there’s—ah. Ah! Oil.” _

_ “I’ve heard,” Geralt hummed, then reached for his own pack. He pulled out a tin, bee balm and cocoa oil, wetting his fingers generously. “It’s not right for this.” _

_ “After that thorough…  _ that _ , I’m probably wet as a maiden,” Jaskier said, his scent coloring with the dusty, slightly salty twinge of his embarrassment.  _

_ “I’m not going to hurt you, Jaskier,” Geralt said firmly, sliding one slick finger inside. Jaskier’s back bowed and he moaned up at the sky, like praise. _

Geralt shudders, gnashing his teeth and feeling the need to curse. He hadn’t taken enough time then. He knew Jaskier was attractive, but he didn’t know he was  _ beautiful. _ He tries to remember if the small dusting of freckles and beauty marks on Jaskier’s lower back had been the same. He tries to remember if Jaskier had gasped for only the gods to hear when Geralt twisted three fingers inside him.

He had been thorough, he had been patient, but he had not savored the bard the way he does now.

“Where are you, making that face,” Jaskier asks, sliding his hands over Geralt’s chest, raking fingers over his dense chest hair, faded scars. He digs his nails into one pectoral, his other hand going to Geralt’s bicep. “What’s on my Witcher’s mind?”

Geralt groans. “You. Only you,” he admits truthfully. He releases one hip in favor of finding Jaskier’s nipple, rosy and pert, laving his tongue over the other.

Jaskier shoves his head back against the pillow and moans.

_ Head down against the bedroll, Jaskier cried out with a sound an ordinary man may have mistaken for pain. On his elbows and knees, Geralt’s hands at his hip and the nape of his neck, Geralt pushed in inch by steady inch. Jaskier smelled of a forest blaze, his lust so rich and dense, and he smelled of cider and citrus and sweat. Geralt wanted to drink him down. _

_ “That’s it,” he said gently, thumb brushing in comfort at Jaskier’s pulse. _

_ His hand was broad enough to cover the bard’s entire neck, and a spike of desire hit his gut like the stab of a knife. Jaskier was, in a sense, helpless to him. Half naked, face down, significantly smaller and weaker, and he only smelled of desire and want.  _

_ Even when he bedded whores who were paid for it, Geralt often smelt their fear, acrid and bitter, sour. He was a Witcher, a mutated monster, after all. He could break a neck with one hand, but Jaskier didn’t think of it that way, did he? Did he ever think at all? _

_ “Thought… thought about this for—oh fuck, Geralt. Please, it’s so good,” Jaskier moaned, the hand on the bedroll flying back to grip at Geralt’s hand over the juncture of his hip and thigh. “I’m… please, in. I want all of it.” _

Jaskier laughs, breathless and sweet. “As it should be. You’re mine, after all,” he sighs, pulling Geralt up to him for a kiss. Their tongues slide, wetter and messier than when they started, teeth bumping tender lips, and Geralt lives for it.

_ Yours. Mine. _ An exchange had happened, though Geralt can scarcely say exactly when. Destiny was bullshit, but if there were any force, anything out there  _ bigger _ than them, it surely would have tied him to Jaskier thinking it would bring Geralt misery. Or peace. Were destiny benevolent, it would have seen that, yes?

“Yours,” Geralt says easily, only parting their lips for that single word before he’s crushing Jaskier to him. He gets a hand in those dark waves, frames Jaskier’s ribs and feels his heart pounding under his palm.

_ Jaskier shivered, his heartbeat fast and powerful under his skin. Geralt had never felt something so incredible, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t come the second he was fully seated inside of Jaskier’s body. _

_ “Oh… oh. You… the songs I could write, Geralt,” Jaskier exhaled, thighs quaking.  _

_ “You’re not singing about my cock.” _

_ “It would be the rebirth of song,” Jaskier swore. “I want this. For the rest of my days, by goddess,” he said, softer than a man could hear. Then he was working himself back, and Geralt let out a snarl more wolf than man. _

_ He smelled the precum leak from Jaskier’s cock and drip onto his bedroll at that. “Still. It’s too soon.” _

_ “I promise, it is past the point of soon, and as I said before, I’m  _ starving _.” _

_ “You never said that.” _

_ “I didn’t know what it felt like, before this,” Jaskier admitted, and he rocked himself back onto Geralt’s cock at the same time as Geralt’s hips twitched forward. They groaned in unison, and Geralt bowed over him, covering Jaskier’s back and breathing heavy against his sweaty neck. He needed both hands to steady himself now, and when Jaskier tilted his head to the side, whining prettier than any woman Geralt ever had, he licked the bard’s throat and then  _ bit _ him. _

The smell of them combined always makes Geralt feel he is on the verge of something dangerous. When Yen would leave him, it left something uncomfortable, almost lonely in the wake of her scent. He could never smell them at the same time, just the lilac and gooseberries fading, leaving him. But Jaskier’s scent and his own blended, making something new, something that did not fade from his clothes when they were apart, something he could practically touch when he found Jaskier after not seeing him, for minutes, for days.

He presses his lips to Jaskier’s temple, his hair slicked there with sweat. It’s Jaskier’s sweat, and his soap and oils, but Geralt smells himself on his bard, in the air dense around them. A Witcher shouldn’t really be distracted by their own scent, and Geralt often believed he hadn’t one. But when he wakes in the early morning hours, the bed warm and still rumpled, the world only extends as far as Jaskier beside him, and he  _ scents _ it.

“You’re sniffing,” Jaskier says, teasing and also smug. “Feeling particularly possessive tonight, Geralt?”

“You smell like mine. Like  _ us _ ,” he admits, curving a hand along Jaskier’s back to haul him closer, gripping his shoulder.

Jaskier laughs, a warm sound that makes Geralt inhale deeply. “Well, I ought to. You’ve been fucking me for hours, you big—“

“Always. You always smell like this,” Geralt corrects. He kisses Jaskier’s temple again, then down his cheek, his jaw, to his shoulder. He fucks Jaskier in earnest then, feeling his nerves tightening, muscle clenching around bone. He’s close, so fucking close, and the sudden increase in both speed and power leave Jaskier’s retort tossed to the wind. 

Fucking Jaskier well removed his capability for speech, but not his ability to make sound completely. He is vocal in bed, singing like a lark when Geralt licks him, fingers him, holds Jaskier down and does all the work. He is vocal astride Geralt’s thighs, riding him with abandon, or lying side by side, whispering in a quiet inn to an injured but still fucking horny Geralt behind him.

Now, he clings to Geralt with all his might, sensing the edge of the cliff they’ve been dancing along for so long. His thighs tremble, ankles hooked behind Geralt’s back, and his nails claw at Geralt’s broad, muscled shoulders.

_ Geralt pulled back and snarled through his teeth, the bite mark on Jaskier’s neck and shoulder curve stirring fire in his blood. He didn’t kiss the bite or soothe it, Jaskier panting and writhing under him, and fucked Jaskier with no further preamble.  _

_ The sounds Jaskier made, fucked out of him by Geralt’s brutal rhythm, could have woke the forest, could have brought danger to them, but Geralt thought nothing of it. He drank them in, his cock pulsing and the twist of heat in his stomach deeper than any lust he’d ever felt. If the bard wanted him, he could have him. Like this. Geralt wouldn’t make a habit of this. Jaskier fell in love with everyone he met, like an eager pup passing by strangers on a busy day. He loved so freely, so quickly, but he would not fall in love with Geralt. _

_ Geralt gnashed his teeth and fucked in deep, hard, forcing please and wanton filth past Jaskier’s lips that he didn’t try to quiet. _

_ He would not fall in love with Geralt. He was different, in that he wasn’t afraid, in that he was loyal to Geralt and didn’t cower from danger where the Witcher was concerned. But his heart was still young, and still human. Different as he could be, Geralt wasn’t stupid. _

“Up, up. I want to ride you while I come,” Jaskier says, more breath than words.

“Can you feel your legs to do so?” Geralt teases.

“Fuck you, Geralt.” Jaskier pushes, wriggles, and Geralt hoists him up onto his lap and impales him on his cock with a powerful thrust. Jaskier moans out, arms around Geralt’s neck with a hand pulling his hair hard. 

“I can feel that, you know,” Geralt says, the rumble in his chest deep as thunder. But alas.

“You’re purring, my white wolf,” Jaskier teases. “Your pleasure betrays you.”

“Never with you,” Geralt says. “Unfortunately.”

“Ah, you lost the ability to hide from me long ago. Like the ability to resist me,” Jaskier says, doing some terribly sinful things with his hips.

Geralt won’t last much longer.

_ Geralt wouldn’t last much longer. _

_ He tangled his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, rutting deep and sure, hardly pulling back before returning to the warmth of Jaskier’s body. So tight and slick, like a sheath for a well-oiled blade. Had Geralt ever fit someone else so well? _

_ “I… I wish—I want you to… inside… but,” Jaskier broke off on a moan, one hand on Geralt’s wrist, the other stripping his cock feverishly.  _

_ Geralt growled, feeling every inch a wolf. He kissed the bruise on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Next time,” he promised, already knowing this hunger would come back, already knowing, already… “When we have a bed. And a bath.” _

_ “Bath. That’s what I was—oh, gods, Geralt.” _

_ “You first. Come on, Jas,” Geralt said, and Jaskier began spilling over his knuckles, practically sobbing into the bedroll, finally muffling his pleasure. _

_ Geralt fucked him through it, until the tight clutch of Jaskier’s heat was too much, too good, and he pulled out. He didn’t even have to get his hand on his cock, just gripped the base and striped Jaskier’s ass with more come than he’d seen since he was a teenager. His vision went white at the edges, and he grunted and cursed through his teeth at how good it felt. _

Now, that wasn’t Geralt’s problem. While he still likes to mark Jaskier, sometimes spurting on his throat and chest or the insides of his thighs, now…  _ Now. _

“You first, love,” Geralt sighs, aching, burning, and Jaskier makes a reedy, broken sound.

“I’m coming with you, or not at all,” Jaskier replies fiercely.

And that’s his lover, Geralt thinks with pride. Regardless, he pulls Jaskier’s head back and places a bite along the side of his throat that has the bard coming all over Geralt’s stomach.

The tight heat sends Geralt over the edge, the way Jaskier clings to him, the beautiful song-like quality of his cries, the smell of his need and satisfaction flooding the room like cinnamon and cider. His hips buck up, shaking thrusts before he holds Jaskier down on him, buried deep as his cock pulses, making what is sure to be a sticky, sinfully  _ right _ mess when it leaks out of Jaskier after he slides off of Geralt.

It’s embarrassing, how this primal, filthy act stirs something very animal in him. How he has marked Jaskier inside, set his claim deep. He wonders if that’s why Vesemir gives his bard such rude stares before directing his ire at Geralt. Of course another Witcher would smell it. 

Geralt thinks of the first time he came inside of Jaskier, in some plush inn with a huge wooden tub, after Jaskier had made a ridiculous sum of coin dancing on a table. He had pressed Jaskier down into the soft bed and came inside of him,  _ twice _ , at Jaskier’s pleading, begging request. There was something so intimate and also terrifying about remaining inside of Jaskier while he worked himself to hardness again, but Jaskier never gave him a moment of rest. The rush of his own seed running down Jaskier’s thighs had made Geralt dizzy, made him snarl, and Jaskier had fucking giggled. A comment about a cat and  _ cream _ . After, they had bathed in the tub together, and Geralt had felt the kind of ease that made him sick.

He feels it now, lying Jaskier back down against his bed in Kaer Morhen, the room where he had grown and been changed and stripped of love. Now it reeks of them, and it is stained with Jaskier the way it used to be stark clean, full of Geralt’s loneliness. The elven lute is by the window, with Geralt’s desk that is now Jaskier’s home for songwriting. There’s a doublet on the door, and small cinnamon muffins and a kettle by the burning fire.

It was a room of stone, nothing, where Geralt would change his bandages and sleep through the aches of changing, of losing a fight. Coming to Kaer Morhen did not feel like coming home; that wasn’t right. It felt like coming somewhere safe, somewhere familiar, where Ciri and Yen and Jaskier could be safe, but Geralt knew what coming home felt like.

Was it the tenth time, or the twentieth? Was it the hundredth time when Jaskier, shaking in his arms, had whispered, “I’m yours, Geralt. Completely yours.” Was it seeing Jaskier again after the mountain, five months later, and feeling whole again? Was it a well-placed wink and a smirk, while Jaskier played to a full ballroom and only saw Geralt?

It was all of it—it was everything that was Jaskier.

_ Jaskier collapsed onto the bedroll, trembling, and Geralt smoothed a hand up the small of his back. “You’re fine.” _

_ “Better… better than fine. How can I write a song about your cock using only metaphors? I am slain…” Jaskier sighed. He glanced over his shoulder, reaching a hand out, and Geralt… Well, Geralt let the bard lace their fingers together. “I’m going to fall into a very deep slumber right about now.” _

_ “Hm.” Geralt used the edge of his blanket to wipe Jaskier clean, and then tucked himself away and sat beside the bard. _

_ “Could we… again,” Jaskier asked, very nearly asleep. _

Of course they could, again and again. Geralt sighs, kissing the top of Jaskier’s head and rolling to the side, keeping them together despite the heat and the stickiness. His breathing is steadying, despite Jaskier still panting like a hard-worked dog. One of the only signs of age Jaskier shows is his lengthened refractory period. But even that would only take some rest and a long drink before Jaskier was ready again, if he so wished. 

Geralt smiles, his eyelids feeling leaden, and his limbs no better. “I love you.”

Jaskier chuckles breathlessly, his arm flopping on the bed behind them before carefully winding up with his hand in Geralt’s hair. “I feel well loved,” he says happily. “In every way.”

Geralt purrs quietly, pushing his head back into the contact. He squeezes Jaskier in his arms, and Jaskier hooks a leg over his hip.

The casual softness undoes him. He remembers when he first said that, because he fucking had to, he had to say those words to Jaskier in case one or both of them fucking died. Geralt could smell the way Jaskier’s scent cooled pleasantly, like early morning frost covering the chamomile sweetgrass of him. And how Jaskier had smiled, till his eyes crinkled and he looked to be fighting back laughter.

Words were never Geralt’s strongest suit, but in a handful of years he has found his love for Jaskier is one of the most powerful things inside him. So, best to voice it honestly and often. Even if his actions are more clear, more impactful, those words no longer frighten him.

“We’ll need to clean up, unless we’re having another round. There’s a work of art painted across your sculpted abs,” Jaskier says gently, kissing Geralt’s jaw. 

“You’re a better bard than a painter.”

“... A compliment, I feel?”

“Surely. And no more rounds. Training early in the morning… Perhaps after lunch.”

“I’ll keep the bed warm for you,” Jaskier says with a  _ whoof _ , and Geralt smiles.

“Eskel said you would be joining him.” He worms his way free, slipping from the bed and walking naked to the wash basin. With a quick Igni, he warms the water, and dips a cloth into it. 

“Eskel will have to pull me from this bed with his own hands,” Jaskier grumbles.

His ferocity, even when exhausted, makes Geralt smile. When he kneels on the bed, Jaskier rolls over towards him, beaming up at Geralt like a kit in sunshine.

That pressure behind Geralt’s ribs, the ache that makes it hard to breathe is present, but not painful. He felt it before, so many times, and he thought he had been poisoned or hexed the first time. When Jaskier slept with someone else after their first time, when he realized Jaskier had left after the mountain, when he thought Jaskier would never open his eyes again, when he couldn’t find the words to apologize but Jaskier touched his face and  _ knew _ . Geralt has learned by now, it is not an ache of pain, but love. He supposes if one has not known much love, it might feel like pain.

He cleans Jaskier with slow, loving attention, then wipes his own stomach and grabs his shirt from the floor. Jaskier wriggles into the fabric and sighs contentedly, scooting down under the furs and blankets before Geralt lies down beside him. Jaskier crawls into his side, pressing a hand to Geralt’s chest over the medallion and kissing a scar on his shoulder.

Geralt closes his eyes, feeling weighty and warm. “Hmm,” he sighs.

“I love you. Love, love, love, love,  _ love _ you,” Jaskier says, and Geralt growls low in his chest, rolling over. He pulls Jaskier into his arms, kissing all over his bard’s face before claiming his lips.

Maybe it’s true Witcher’s don’t feel emotions. Geralt has felt for a very long time that whatever he feels for Jaskier is too big, too powerful to be simple emotion. Maybe it is not emotion as humans can understand, and maybe that’s a clue for him to figure out what Jaskier is, and to better protect him.

Jaskier hums against Geralt’s neck, smelling of his scent and Geralt’s and  _ safe. _ Geralt drops a kiss to Jaskier’s head, then tilts his head until he can look out the window across from the bed. Outside Kaer Morhen, the snow falls in dense, moonlit flakes. Winter is settling heavy, and they’re safe here, Geralt and his odds and ends family, fucked up destiny already in motion.

He has had a very long life already, and it seems that suddenly everything is culminating to a point very fast, beyond his ability to stop it. War is coming. But he has had this too long for any circumstances to take it from him, for  _ anything _ to take  _ Jaskier _ from him. He has Yen and the Witchers to help him protect Ciri, but Jaskier? Jaskier is all his own, a responsibility, a devotion only Geralt is pledged to. Geralt growls in his chest, holding Jaskier just a bit tighter. Gods be damned if they try to remove Jaskier from his arms, after all the shit he had to wade through to get him there. 

Jaskier’s breath grows soft and slow against Geralt’s neck, one hand curled to his chest, the other on Geralt’s ribs. Geralt runs one hand up Jaskier’s smooth, unmarred back, wrapping it around his shoulders and pulling his sleeping bard even closer. Jaskier mumbles something, either Geralt’s name or ‘my love’, which is often interchangeable to Jaskier’s mind.

This is what Geralt will fight for. To be able to feel this, for the rest of his days. For those days to be long and fulfilling, all all the days with Jaskier have been. This is coming home.

  
  
  



End file.
